The Greatest Knight (13 page)

“I cannot lead men in battle unless I am a knight.” The tightness of Henry’s jaw made hollows in his cheeks. “I…I want you to confer it upon me.”

William inhaled sharply. To one side he was aware of Baldwin de Béthune and Adam Yqueboeuf staring with open mouths. “Me, sire? You want me to confer your knighthood?” For once, William’s aplomb deserted him. “Would not the King of France be better, or one of his lords?”

Henry shook his head impatiently. “No, I want you to do it. Why should you be so surprised? You have the renown, and the respect of all your peers. My mother loves and trusts you.” His complexion flushed. “It means more to me that you belt on my sword than any Frenchman, no matter his rank.”

“Then I would be honoured to knight you, sire,” William said hoarsely. He bent his knee and bowed his head, but Henry immediately bade him stand.

“I should kneel to you,” he said. “You have trained me to arms, you have stood at my side even when I haven’t deserved it. You show me what courtesy should be.” He knelt before William, the gesture dramatic but sincere. William sought for something to say but this was new territory and he had no precedents to guide him.

“Sire, you imbue me with virtues that I am not sure are mine. Please.” Stooping, William drew Henry to his feet and gave him the kiss of peace. For a moment the young man gripped his arm. To the others it looked like a soldiers’ clasp but William could feel the desperation in the touch. Henry wanted to be considered a man, capable of ruling, a fledged knight, a fine general on the battefield, a king. All those things he might become in time, but, for the moment, he was borrowing the robes of such men to clad a fickle, untried youth. As his young wife had done, he was asking William for reassurance. Unqualified, shouldering his own burden of expectation, William borrowed a stranger’s robes too—and gave it.

Ten

Hamstead Marshal, Berkshire, May 1175

The trees were in full pale green leaf as William rode along the dust-whitened lane towards Hamstead. The twitter of birdsong, the soft plod of shod hoof, and the creak of harness and accoutrements were pleasant sounds, but to William they were an uncomfortable reminder of the day his uncle Patrick had been murdered by the Lusignans. That too had been a soft, spring day with everyone off their guard. Not that he expected to be attacked within sight of the family keep, but memory did not answer to reason and he rode in his hauberk with his sword belted at his hip and a mace pushed through his belt.

He had left the Young King at Westminster with his father, attending a synod convened by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Father and son had been on the best of terms, laughing at each other’s jests, clapping each other’s shoulders like old friends. No one would suspect there had been a deep rift between them, or guess that their quarrel had caused a vicious, bloody war. But William only had to see smoke rising from a burning midden pit to remember the villages in flames as the bitter dispute ravaged the land and plagues of mercenaries despoiled and plundered at will. The sight of a dead ox or sheep would clench his gut even before his nostrils drew in the stench. Every castle he passed left him pondering ways to besiege it and bring it to surrender. William was pragmatic; he had not flinched from deeds of fire and sword, but there was a price to pay and it lay heavy on him now.

Louis of France had welcomed Young Henry with open arms; had given him a seal of his own, generous funds, and together they had coordinated an attack on Henry’s father. Richard and Geoffrey had arrived safely at the French court to join the rebellion but their mother had been captured as she rode to join them, disguised as a man, and was now under house arrest at Salisbury. The Young King had threatened to hew England to pieces in order to free her. Richard had been vociferous in his declarations to do just that, for the bond between him and his mother was particularly close. However, the practicalities had proven more difficult than the rhetoric and the English uprising had been left to the likes of the Earls of Leicester and Norfolk with aid from the Scots, who were always willing to stir the pot. The unrest had been widespread but the justiciar, Richard de Luci, had managed to contain it, the rebels had been routed, and their leaders captured. In Normandy too, despite modest successes and French support, the rebellion had failed. The best that could be salvaged was the King’s concession that his eldest son should have an income of his own, rather than be dependent on begging at his father’s purse strings. Young Henry had been given two castles in Normandy and an annual income of fifteen thousand Angevin pounds. Richard was to have half the revenues of Poitou and Geoffrey the same for Brittany. But the Young King had been forced to acknowledge his father’s right to make provision for John as he deemed fit, and Queen Eleanor remained a prisoner in Salisbury.

As William approached Hamstead he tried to set aside thoughts of the war, but it was difficult since his brother had fought in it too—on the King’s side. He hoped that John would understand, but a nugget of uncertainty caused him to pull back on the bridle even while he urged his palfrey onwards. Confused, the horse champed the bit and baulked. Rhys uttered a startled expletive as his horse collided with William’s mount and he had to rein back to avoid the irritated lash of a hind hoof.

William apologised. “I was thinking back instead of going forward,” he said.

“Never wise to do that,” Rhys replied in his sing-song French.

“No,” William agreed wryly. He looked at the small Welshman. Since his thoughts were on the recent war, it was a natural progression to mention Rhys’s former lord. “Richard de Clare was in Normandy fighting for King Henry,” he said. “Were you not tempted to return to him?”

Rhys screwed up his face. “I thought about it, sir, especially when things were going badly for us, but I knew that I’d be jumping out of the cauldron into the fire. Lord Richard came to fight for King Henry because he was ordered—because it was his duty and he’s a man of honour. But he’s back in Ireland now, and Ireland was the reason I left his service.”

William nodded at his servant’s reply. He had encountered de Clare briefly during the peace negotiations. There had been a few new scars, and the auburn hair had begun to salt with grey. Despite a leg wound that was slow to heal, the lord of Leinster and Striguil had been full of vigour. In some ways, Richard de Clare reminded William of his own father. There was that same incisive, ruthless streak combined with charisma and vision—and so much vitality that only the energy he threw into warfare seemed able to calm it.

“Lord Richard wouldn’t want to be away from the Princess Aoife and his children for too long, especially now she’s borne him a son and heir.”

William raised an eyebrow. “You keep abreast of his doings then.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder towards William’s modest baggage train and the quiet, dark-eyed woman straddling one of the pack horses. “My wife’s like all women—no interest in men’s disputes, but likes to know the cosy fireside details.”

William laughed quietly at his groom’s eloquent expression. His heart was lightened by Rhys’s domestic observation and he urged his palfrey towards Hamstead with restored buoyancy.

***

William watched the toddler struggle out of his mother’s arms and, squealing with joy, make a beeline for her pet mouser. The sleek tabby cat sprang from floor to sideboard and, curling its paws into its chest, regarded the infant disdainfully out of slanting golden eyes, the tip of its tail twitching. The squeals became less delighted. The infant reached upwards, fat fists opening and closing. “Cat,” he shouted. “Cat, cat, cat!”

“He has our father’s determination and the temper of the King,” John Marshal said smiling with paternal pride.

William grinned. “You mean he bites the floor rushes when he is denied?”

“As near as makes no difference.” John eyed William. “I never believed those tales about King Henry doing that. I’ve seen him in some rages this past year, but never rolling on the floor.”

“Neither have I, but if true, he would do it for the effect it had on the witnesses, not because he was suffering from a fit of uncontrollable fury.”

“Cat!” The toddler’s scream was ear-splitting. Flushed with chagrin, Alais hastened to distract her son with a morsel of honeycomb but he was having none of it and continued to yell. William stooped to seize a fistful of his nephew’s smock and swung him aloft. The infant stared at him in astonishment, pink mouth frozen open and the wail locked in his throat.

“If you are going to be my squire in years to come, you’ll have to learn the meaning of courtesy,” William informed his nephew, “and that some things are out of bounds, no matter how much you scream.”

“You didn’t teach your other pupil very well, did you?” John said acidly. “The tantrum he threw was beyond belief.”

William swung his nephew up on to his shoulders and wrapped his hands around the chubby feet, which were encased in soft, sheepskin slippers. “I agree the Young King threw a tantrum, but it wasn’t beyond belief and in part he was justified. Crowning him was like giving him a chest full of treasure and then telling him that he couldn’t open it and have any of the contents.”

John was unimpressed. “Yes, and what would he have done with those contents? We’ve heard about his extravagances. It is said that were he given all the revenues of Normandy, he’d find ways to spend them in a week.”

“You shouldn’t listen to every piece of gossip you hear.” William swept the child down from his shoulders and swung him gently just off the floor. The baby laughed, exposing two rows of perfect white milk teeth. “He’s a fine, sturdy lad,” William said to Alais to change the subject.

She reddened with pleasure and smiled back. Childbirth had ripened her curves. A wimple respectably covered her chestnut braids and although she wore no wedding ring, several others adorned her fingers, including one set with a fine ruby. “He is a handful,” she said, “a proper boy, into every sort of scrape and not yet two summers old.” Her voice glowed with pride. She touched William’s arm. “Whatever his father says, you will make a fine tutor for him when he’s old enough to be a squire, nor will it harm him to have an uncle well placed at court.”

John coughed. “I do not call being tutor to a fickle young spendthrift and protégé of an imprisoned queen being well placed,” he said disagreeably.

“But things change.” Alais squeezed her lover’s arm. “Don’t be so crabby. William’s not here for long and you are brothers.”

“That’s no recommendation for harmony,” John growled but, at her glare, added, “I am pleased to see him, but that doesn’t stop us having our differences, and I can still be concerned for the future.”

William shrugged. “Plan for it by all means, but don’t let it trouble your sleep.”

“You say that after what happened last year?” John’s voice filled with scorn. “England, Normandy and Anjou in flames, not to mention Poitou. The King and his sons at each other’s throats and the Earl of Leicester landing an army of Flemings in Norfolk? Christ, you might want to dance in the mouth of hell, but I want to live to see my son grow up. I had to stop Ancel from riding off to join the Young King’s party,” he added darkly. “He was in his hot blood and ready to cross the sea and seek you out. I told him you’d not thank him and that finding a place in a lord’s mesnie isn’t just a matter of riding up and offering one’s sword. I managed to command his loyalty, but he doesn’t like me for it. He’s at Wexcombe with Mother, letting the dust settle.”

William felt sympathy, for both John and for Ancel: one having to give orders; the other forced to obey them; and neither benefiting. “I would take Ancel if I could, but I cannot afford to at the moment.” William plucked at his rich tunic. “I may look prosperous to you, but I am beholden to my lord for the clothes I wear, the horse I ride, and the food in my mouth. However fine my equipment, when it comes to the crux, I am still a hearth knight.”

“But an exalted one.”

William twitched his shoulders, acknowledging the fact while making little of it.

Unable to contain their restlessness indoors, the brothers went out of the castle and walked around the walls where they had played as children. Today, other small boys were engaged in a boisterous game of chase in the May sunshine, their laughter adding a layer to the echo of memory. William remembered mock sword fights on the sward: what it felt like to win; what it felt like to lose.

“So in truth, and ignoring the rumours,” John said, “what sort of king will Prince Henry make? You are his tutor. What do you know of him?”

William gnawed his thumbnail and considered. “He is not like his father,” he said slowly, “except perhaps he has the same determination to get his own way. If money trickles through his hands like water down a drain, it is indeed because he enjoys spending it and being generous to those in his service. He believes it increases his standing to be seen to have an open door and to scatter largesse as if silver were of no more account than ears of wheat.”

John’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Well, that accords with the rumours,” he said.

William paused to look up at the high, narrow windows. There was a gallery at the top of the tower and someone had hung several shirts over the rail to dry. “He is still growing. You can argue that his father was a man before he was sixteen years old, but he matured early and from necessity. My lord is clever and sharp; he knows how to make people love him. The rest will come.”

“Despite that remark about being the greater king because he is the son of a king, not the son of a count?”

William sighed. Henry’s “witticism” seemed set to endure. Everyone had heard of it and he was growing sick of fending off adverse comments. “He was younger then and drunk on wine and excitement. He has more control these days. I do not know why he gets the reputation for being the one who’s too clever with his words. Geoffrey is just as bad and Richard’s tongue is so sharp he can make men bleed.”

“But Richard is Duke of Aquitaine and unlikely to be our king,” John said. “He’s little known in England and Normandy—just another royal whelp…”

“…and Eleanor’s favourite,” William reminded his brother, but John was not persuaded.

“She is locked away in Salisbury and, as matters stand, unlikely to be given her freedom for a long time.”

William conceded the point with a brief nod. “Perhaps not, but for the moment Richard is his brother’s heir and the Queen has had the major hand in raising him. Richard is the child of her soul in the same way that John is King Henry’s.”

His brother looked alarmed and William’s lips twitched. Men professed to love Eleanor, but it was an adoration tinged with fear and more than a hint of “God forbid.” Perhaps they were right to be fearful, but William had long gone beyond that.

“Then I wish the Young King the wherewithal to grow up and mature,” John said. “What of his wife? Does she show any signs of breeding?”

“You would have to ask her women about that,” William said neutrally. He could have told his brother that the marriage between Henry and Marguerite had only lately been consummated and that the couple were dutiful rather than passionate when it came to sharing a bed. However, William considered the matter personal and, being protective of Marguerite and his lord, said nothing.

John took the hint, although he made a jest of wondering whether the Young King would have his own heir crowned in his lifetime.